


Pot-au-frog

by tnico



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Humor, Lambert-centric, M/M, i make an entire fic out of one punchline that's it, rude witcher man lies, that's it he just lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnico/pseuds/tnico
Summary: Lambert had just been trying to enjoy the first fucking meal he hadn't need forage or snare his own-damn-self inweekswhen the bard comes up.
Relationships: (background), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 87
Kudos: 409
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	Pot-au-frog

**Author's Note:**

> look, sometimes you just think up one good punchline and,
> 
> just a little one-off for fun!

Lambert had just been trying to enjoy the first fucking meal he hadn't need forage or snare his own-damn-self in _weeks_ when the bard comes up. He's named Waldomark or something like that-- had his minute-long fancy fucking introduction out and moved on to his main motive without ever even bothering to ask _Lambert's_ name, so Lambert doesn't see cause to give a shit on his end what the scut calls himself in whatever-the-fuck courts he's simpered and suckjobbed his way into.

Lambert had long given up on maintaining the fantasy that dipping his hunk of bread into the leftover broth of his duck's blood soup would make any difference from just dipping it right into his water-mug, what with how thin-blooded the poultry-poltroon apparently was. The bread's that sort of backwater-village-brick-dense that a proper broth would have helped him get it down, though, and the fact it's taking him a while to chew through is apparently enough cause for this Waldomark to sit at his table and launch into his gods-damn life story under the _incredibly_ misguided theory that Lambert will actually have a shit to give on offer.

The whole thing starts to make more sense when Geralt's bard comes up, and thus Geralt by proxy. Lambert isn't really listening; finding his personal attention better parsed out on the idle realization that oh yeah, for Buttercup's crowd, _Geralt_ would be the accessory of the pair.

He tunes back in to Waldomark's gabbling and away from his internal ruminations as his external ruminations are drawing to a close so he can give some sort of relevant response. Not because he actually thinks the man deserves one-- he's got the feel of those kind of clients who use the space in the conversation that's supposed to be for others to respond as their time to think up what they'll say next.

There is, however, a faint-but-there chance that if Lambert fucks with this man, it will eventually travel its way down the chain of acquaintanceship and end up fucking with Geralt himself. Lambert had resolved, ever since Geralt had come back to Kaer Morhen with the tale of how he fucked his _second_ sorceress, that never once on his Path would he turn away a chance, however slight, to add some twists to Geralt's.

Is it a particularly mature way for a man to behave? Perhaps not. Does it make being subjected to _heroic ballads_ about a man you have _personally witnessed_ drunkenly piss onto his own-damn-shirt (because as _should have been obvious_ , pissing off battlements regularly blasted by harsh mountain wind is a _terrible idea_ ) easier to stomach? _Fucking right it does_.

"--This veneration of the _provincial character_ that is overtaking the medium rightfully secured by men of-- character, knowledge, certain _standing_. The right kind of _class_ has been strangled out of the narrative ballad. Heroes need to be _heroes_! He might as well have won the competition with a ditty about a _rat-catcher_ or a _rag-picker_."

"Yeah, sounds unbearable," Lambert comments agreeably, tearing off another hunk of bread. He has the feeling he'll get plenty of time for chewing in Waldomark's in-betweens. "I mean, cities would run just as smooth as always if we didn't have those rat-catchers and rag-pickers about, but I can't _imagine_ how we'd all manage to survive in our day-to-day without the proper _heroes._ "

Waldomark nods emphatically, first pounding the table with his fist and then shaking it out as he winces. "Precisely! As a witcher yourself, surely you must see the preposterous _supposition_ \-- oh, do forgive my diction, I don't often have use for the parlance of the common man. Ahem-- you _must_ see it's a foolish notion at the base of those witcher ballads of his. To think romance might be wrought from the vocation of a _tradesman_."

"Right, yeah. And let me tell ya, Marko, it's been no spring picnic on my side, either," Lambert says, in a suitable confiding tone. Waldomark buys it immediately, leaning in widening his eyes in a manner that's probably supposed to look convincingly sympathetic but can't quite rid itself of the innate smugness of a man who thinks he's being guilesome over another.

"Ever since those damnable songs started making the rounds, all _sorts_ of ignorant assholes just keep coming up to me and talking up like they know shit-all about my job and what it's like. Just 'cuz they heard a song somewhere! It's unbearable, Markoff, absolutely unbearable. Who _does_ that, right?" He shakes his head towards the man, swirling his spoon around in the dilute allegedly-broth in his bowl to see if he missed anything in its contents.

" _Peasants_ ," Waldomark says, and as a man born into peasantry himself Lambert would almost find overt, directed scorn more tolerable than the same dismissive assumption of base superiority someone might use when talking about a fucking _dog_. " _No_ sense of decorum in the lot of them. No _wonder_ Julian resorts to pandering to them; like attracts like."

"Coo, master, slow down there with the fancy-words," Lambert drawls, spinning his spoon in a manner as to flick a few drops right onto Waldomark's fancy fucking doublet. The man's expression tightens, but he seems to genuinely believe it wasn't on purpose, so Lambert feels free to dip his spoon and do it again as he continues. "I'm nary but a witcher; can't hardly handle such learn _ed_ philosophy all at once."

"Of course," Waldomark smiles, "What manner of bard am I, to forget the level of my audience."

"Marry, n'uncle," Lambert agrees blithely.

"--Do forgive me, say again?"

"Marination," Lambert says, and nods authoritatively like that's actually supposed to make sense. Waldomark, because _of course_ he's the type, would rather smear Lambert's bullshit on his face than actually admit he doesn't know know what to do when handed a pile of bullshit, so he nods with all confidence and says " _Exactly_."

"Well, worry yourself not, Master Wallybark," Lambert says, leaving a space for Waldomark to try to get in a correction on whatever-his-name-actually-is specifically so he can then directly cut him off with "I mean, your problem with that bard'll resolve itself soon enough, after all."

Waldomark buys it hook-and-line, leaning in even closer with his eyes all alight, so Lambert takes the opportunity to shove the rest of the heel of his bread into his mouth and chew all-the-way through it. He makes sure to take all the proper time and care clearly necessary with his table manners, being in such _esteemed company_ and all, and leaves Waldomark to the marination.

The man's nearly vibrating by the time Lambert washes down the bread with his drink, while trying very, very hard to appear casually disaffected. "--Will it?" he prompts, tone stretched taut like a tick. Sounds about as blood-hungry for it, too, Lambert notes.

"Oh, yeah, definitely," he replies, nodding. "I mean, they're kissing now, aren't they?"

"I'd heard that, but you can never trust those sorts of rumors, when it comes to those of Julian's and my station. There's an uncouth obsession for some people to tell tales of those of good bearing paired up with _all_ sorts. Though-- considering what passes for his idea of a proper love-story, he probably finds the disparity between them _romantic_ ," Waldomark opines, laced with a nose-wrinkling distaste.

"Mm-hm. They that sleep with dogs rise with fleas," Lambert keeps nodding.

"Exactly."

"Well, they're kissing for sure. I've even seen them do it, swear on your name, Wonderfarts--" whoops, that one might have edged a smidge too blatant, can't give him the time to process it, "--so. You may not know the incubation period, but the curse'll have to come due eventually," Lambert says, and waits to be prodded.

"The _curse_ ," Waldomark obliges, in an intake of breath.

"Oh, yeah, the curse all witchers have to bear. The true price for all that witchery we can do," he says, solemn. "Witchers that we are."

"And-- this curse, it's spread to Julian?"

"Has to have," Lambert says, "If they're kissing. It's like the rabies, see. Passed on in the spit like it, too. Makes contact with your membranes, gets on human skin-- you'll get infected. Every time. And then it's just a matter of incubation periods, you know? It might lie dormant in your blood for years, but it'll come for you. That's what you get, for swapping spit with a witcher. Why do you think we gotta pay such a premium at the whorehouse?"

Waldomark looks nigh-breathless with excitement, his fingers tapping frenetically on the table. Lambert takes another pull from his mug. He doesn't usually stretch his bullshitting out this long-- he's legitimately parched from all the talking. You'd think Geralt would appreciate all the effort Lambert puts into adding a little more spice to his life, really.

Lambert drops his mug to the table then taps the side of his nose. "Whores know," he confides. "You've got to be incredibly careful to not make contact with the spit of the witcher. Else you'll die for sure."

"Yes, and--? How will he die? Ah, I ask out of concern for Julian, of course," Waldomark hastens to assure.

Lambert leans back in his chair, reaching out and hooking his fingers through his nearby sword-harness to bring it closer. "Oh, it's dreadfully cruel in the ironies, you see. Maybe even the steelies, or the silveries," he holds his swords up and nods meaningfully, just to see if the man'll nod confidently back. Waldomark doesn't fail to disappoint.

"Should one kiss a witcher-- that's a little bardic embroidering for you, it really is just the spit-contact-- the curse will ensnare you. So it's dormant in your blood for years, right? But you never know what will set it off. Maybe it's just an odd itch. Maybe it's just a random rash. Fucking _anything_ could be how it starts, and you'll never know for sure until you start wasting away. Really gruesome stuff, I tell you. Like, I'm talking the skin sloughing off, eyes melting outta the head like soured cream in the sun-- that's what he gets for kissing Geralt," he concludes, leaning forward now so he can shoulder the cinch of his harness on.

"And," he says, bowing even more forward. Waldomark mirrors his movement, hanging onto his words with a palpable hunger. "That's where the irony comes in. Because the only thing that can cure the curse of the witcher's kiss is to receive a kiss from a witcher kindled from true love. You know, that curse bullshit."

"But everyone knows that witchers--" Waldomark says.

Lambert nods, heavy with the gravity. "I told you it was dreadfully cruel, wasn't it?" he says, straightening out the remains of his lunch and brushing off a few errant crumbs from the whole stuffing-a-mass-of-bread-in-his-mouth-to-then-chew-obnoxiously-slowly thing. "The cause is the curse is the cure, yet there's no way to cure it. Downright poetic, if you think about. But the incubation period can last pretty long, you know? Years, even. And there's only one way for _sure_ to set it off on the man, of course," he adds, like it's an afterthought.

"--And that would be...?" Waldomark urges, all fingers pressed tight on the table now.

"You wanna know? It's--"

Lambert looks around him carefully, then gestures the other man closer. Waldomark leans in.

Lambert promptly upends his bowl of broth right into Waldomark's lap, spits a quick-summoned gob right in his face, stands, and strides right on out of the tavern.

As he makes his way out of the village, he's still grinning.

**Author's Note:**

> boy i sure like writing lambert fics where geralt features yet never shows up, don't i!
> 
> edit: oh! i know i have some ESL readers (hello! i'm very flattered you're reading!!) so to explain the particular layers within the title
> 
> pot-au-feu is a french boiled dish -> french cuisine itself is considered somewhat notorious amongst europeans for eating frog -> the myth of the [boiling frog](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boiling_frog) -> [that one frog kissing fairy tale we all so love!!](https://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/175/grimms-fairy-tales/3066/the-frog-prince/)
> 
> what, i told you my favorite writer is shakespeare, i find the very best puns are crafted intricately and contain multitudes within
> 
> if you liked my fic, please remember to leave kudos! 
> 
> (｡òᴗ-)7✧ i like seeing who liked my stuff.


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